


The Last Days of NASCAR

by Deifire



Category: NASCAR RPF, Scott Westerfeld's Peeps
Genre: Apocalypse, M/M, NASCAR, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/pseuds/Deifire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Zippy set the Cup car on fire during qualifying at Charlotte and ran away screaming, it was pretty hard to hide that something was up...</p><p>Dale Earnhardt Junior, Secret Vampire Racecar Driver, explains it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Days of NASCAR

**Author's Note:**

> The National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing and assorted personalities are not mine, and no events in this story are for reals. Vampire parasite scenario and the Night Watch are Scott Westerfeld's.

After Zippy set the Cup car on fire during qualifying at Charlotte and ran away screaming, it was pretty hard to hide that something was up. It wasn't like there had been rumors of weird behavior circulating the garage for weeks, but this was the first time the anathema effect had been broadcast on national television.

Most people blamed stress or drugs, and probably kept on blaming stress or drugs even after Michael Waltrip blabbed the truth to the entire viewing audience of _This Week in NASCAR_. This was before the infection had spread to his team, and I think he was feeling left out until Chad Knaus finally bit him after the show just to get him to shut up. Now, of course, the drivers and crews at Michael Waltrip Racing are just as strong and fast and adverse to sunlight as anybody, but at the time I don't think most people believed him.

Because the truth is, it wasn't drugs _or_ stress. In fact, Patient Zero had just might have gone and eliminated any potential for a drug problem NASCAR might ever face from now until the end of time, because it just isn't possible for anybody except the newest of rookies to get high anymore. Hell, you can't even sustain a good buzz from alcohol. I know because Clint and I tried for hours with Jack Daniels one night, and we were each well past our tenth bottle of Old No. 7 before we concluded that this was a waste of a fine product, and we should probably go find Harvick and see about getting nekkid instead.

Damn vampire metabolism.

I should probably start over.

***

Thing is, I'm not actually sure when or how it started. By the time I got involved, Patient Zero had already missed four or five races due to what the press was calling an "unspecified illness." Everybody was on Jack Roush's case about it, but Jack wasn't exactly being forthcoming with the details.

All five of his Cup drivers did show up for the weekend at Phoenix, though rumors were that one hadn't left the hauler except long enough to qualify.

I'd been busy with my Nationwide teams and sponsor obligations and all that, so while I meant to check on him, it wasn't until Jamie McMurray caught me in the infield at night that I actually remembered.

"Hey Junior," he said. "Matt wants to see you."

Now, this was before I knew what to look for. I just barely noticed that Jamie Mac was acting kind of strange. Later it would all make sense: the way he had one hand pressed to his neck, the way his eyes shone, how he seemed to be sniffing the air, and how just the way he looked at me made me instinctively want to back up. But at the time, I was distracted, and so was he.

"Hey, you haven't seen Elliot, have you?" he asked.

"Yeah, he's..." I waved vaguely in the direction of the 19 hauler, which was where I had last seen Sadler.

"Okay, thanks," said Jamie and was gone before I had a chance to blink.

I expected to find Matt looking sick, at the very least a little tired. Instead he looked...good. Not just healthy, but somehow healthier than he'd ever been. Later, I learned that one of symptoms of being infected with vampirism was that it made you strangely attractive to ordinary human beings. At the time, I was just thinking that "gorgeous" was never a word I would have used to describe Matt Kenseth, but yet...

"How you doing, Matt?" I asked.

Now, I had never in my life been turned on by another man. Much. At least, not the way I was then. But when Matt got up from his chair, smiled that evil-looking half-smile, and said, "I'm great, Dale. How are you?" I suddenly wasn't sure if he wanted to fuck me or eat me. And, either way, my body seemed to be all for it.

My response, whatever the words might have been, stuck in my throat, as I felt the sudden urge to run and nearly gave into it. Matt, though, kept advancing until we were face-to-face, my back up against the wall. Then he kissed me.

"Now wait..." I started to say, but by the second word he'd already unzipped my pants and ripped off my shirt.

Damn vampire speed.

By the time I even thought about saying anything else, his hands had found my cock and his teeth were nibbling at my neck.

I decided to go with it.

***

The morning after, I went crazy.

Not just an "I slept with Matt Kenseth. Oh God, what have I done?" sort of crazy. Y'know, the sort you might expect when you never in you whole life thought you were gay, but you remember you just spent the night having wild sex with one of your male friends without even the benefit of being drunk as an excuse.

No, this was full-on batshit crazy. As in, I stumbled to bathroom, looked in the mirror, screamed, and went right out of my mind. I can't describe it properly except to say that the sight of my own face suddenly was the most horrific thing I'd ever encountered in my life.

That was my first experience of the anathema effect.

See, some of the vampire legends are real. We don't fly, don't grow fangs, and can't turn into bats, and we _can_ see ourselves in mirrors. It's just that we really, really don't want to.

The parasite that's responsible for turning someone into a vampire does something to your brain, so that suddenly you fear and loathe the sight of your own face and the sound of your own name, along with everything and everyone you ever really loved. If you were a Christian before you were infected, you'll fear and run from crosses, which was how that particular legend sprung up, but the same thing happens with anything that was truly important to you.

When it started spreading, we were able to catch a whole lot of infected fans by the way they reacted to the sight of my daddy's number.

Matt says its some sort of survival instinct gone wrong. I say it's just damned scary.

It all sort of went red after that. I smashed the mirror, then proceeded to trash the hell out of the motorcoach, targeting anything and everything related to racing until finally the instinct to get as far away from there as possible overtook me, and I ran out the door.

It was daylight.

The sun _burned_.

I screamed again, ran back inside, and didn't notice the other predator in the room until he'd grabbed me from behind and knocked me out.

Kenseth had always been a sneaky bastard even before the vampire thing.

***

I woke up again in a dark room, Matt standing over me saying, "Here, take these."

I eyed the pills in his hand. "What are those?"

"Mandrake and garlic mostly," he said. I just stared. "Look, take 'em or don't, but if you don't, I guarantee you're going to have the same reaction every time you come across your own image, your own name, or anything that reminds you of your life. And if there's _anybody_ who's gonna have trouble getting away from his own image..."

I took the pills and swallowed quick.

"You turned me into a fucking vampire," I said.

"Well, yeah," he said, and gave me that evil half-grin. "That's kinda it exactly."

And then he gave me my first lesson in Vampires 101.

Vampirism is actually caused by a parasite that's transmitted from human to human by biting or sex. Or sometimes sex _with_ biting. He explained about the anathema effect, the aversion to daylight--"But it won't actually hurt you. Just make sure to keep taking the pills and wear sunglasses"--and the super strength, enhanced senses, rapid healing, and hungers that went with being a vampire.

Yep, hungers. See, being as there are two ways the parasite is spread, the infection not only makes you crave blood, it makes you horny. All the time. But I had to be very careful about who I slept with from now on, and if I _did_ get someone infected, they would have to take the same antidote I would now have to take for the rest of my life, or else risk becoming a people-eating psychopath afraid of mirrors.

He also told me that "for the rest of my life" now meant decades, possibly even centuries, barring accidents. And it takes one hell of an accident to kill or even much hurt the likes of us.

That was when I slugged him.

Then I grabbed the pills, and found a dark place to curl up and sleep until race time.

***

The treatment seemed to be working. I was afraid of what would happen when it came time to change into my firesuit, but it didn't actually make me feel like screaming. I stared at my own reflection in the mirror and practiced saying the words "the National Guard-AMP-Mountain Dew Chevrolet" until I was confident they weren't going to make me go crazy, and I could do it without flinching.

Then I went out to face the National Guard-AMP-Mountain Dew Chevrolet in person. And all the race day crowds.

Yep, the pills were working. I didn't jump or bite anyone, just kept smiling and signing autographs, wondering if I looked to them the way Matt had to me last night. To be honest, it's still kind of hard to tell with the fans.

On the outside, nothing seemed much different from yesterday.

Except everyone smelled like prey.

Then I began to notice a few folks who smelled sort of like Matt. Like other predators who were also, in some sense, family. Jamie Mac was one, and when I caught the same scent from Elliot Sadler and Kasey Kahne later, I probably shouldn't have been as surprised as I was.

"Hey Jun," said a voice behind me. Shit. Tony Junior. I turned to face him and sighed in relief when the sight of my cousin didn't make me go insane. He smelled familiar and like family, of the regular, non-vampiric variety.

He also smelled slightly of worry.

"Um, Jun, you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, and suddenly gave into the impulse to hug him. "I'm just fine." I walked away as the worry-smell grew stronger and mixed with confusion.

I was nervous through the whole opening ceremony and when I strapped myself into the car, half convinced that the whole thing would wear off and I would snap again, but I didn't.

And then, finally, they threw the green flag.

If I can't describe the horror of waking up as a vampire to you, I really can't describe the sheer awesome thrill of racing a stock car as a vampire for the first time.

My reflexes were faster, my senses sharper. I'm not the Earnhardt they said could see the air, but suddenly I could feel it, smell it, in a way I never had before. And I first felt the exhilaration of a true predator on the hunt as I started passing car after car in my charge to the front.

I know I didn't give into the vampire side entirely. I somehow kept in touch with enough of my humanity to keep track of pit stops and caution flags and communicate with Tony Junior and the guys. I even gave decent interviews and remembered to thank my sponsors in victory lane.

It didn't even bother me much that everyone there smelled like food.

It was only much later, when I was walking alone, congratulating myself on keeping it all together and thinking that there were advantages to this whole Dale Earnhardt Junior, Secret Vampire Racecar Driver thing after all, that I ran into Casey Mears.

"Hey Junior," he said. "Congratulations."

I started to say thanks or something, tried to remind myself that this was my teammate and not dinner, but the next thing I knew I had him slammed up against the nearest wall.

I could hear his heart pounding fast and every instinct I had was screaming that I needed to feed on him or fuck him.

If he'd protested when I kissed him hard, I might have stopped and come to my senses again. But he responded with as much enthusiasm as he'd ever shown for anything.

The next morning, I was handing him garlic-and-mandrake pills and giving him the same lecture Matt had given me.

Casey had the rest of the number 5 team infected within the month.

***

It went downhill pretty quickly after that. Drivers turned their wives and girlfriends, turned each other, turned crew members, turned fans.

I'm, um, pretty sure I was singlehandedly responsible for Clint Bowyer, Kevin Harvick and Jeff Burton.

It wasn't like every single member of NASCAR Nation was infected. We tried to be careful and discrete, after all. But there were accidents. And not always of the sexual variety, either.

I mean, I'm almost certain Denny Hamlin didn't mean to eat Kyle Busch any more that I meant to have a post-race four-way with all three RCR teammates. It was just one of them vampire parasite deals.

Then Kevin--who still denies it, even though we all know better--turned Tony Stewart and Tony turned Greg Zipadelli, who went to work on the 20 car and had his on-camera fire thing before any of us found out about it and were able to give either one of them the safer-sex vampire lecture.

Meanwhile, Kenseth was working on key members of the sanctioning body. I don't exactly want to picture it, but we could all sense which of us were predators and members of Matt's bloodline, and furthermore, which of us more directly served as Matt's minions. And let's just say when Matt told Mike Helton and Brian France we needed more night races and lights at every speedway, we got more night races and lights at every speedway.

I don't know why Matt Kenseth was fixing to make himself Vampire Lord of All NASCAR and I didn't much care. He could be an evil overlord all he wanted, as long as he raced me clean and stopped letting his damned cats watch during sex.

I asked him once after he was done sucking my...blood, and he only muttered something about needing to be prepared for what was coming, and went to sleep.

I thought he was talking about the Chase.

***

I was aware that there probably were vampires out there other than the ones from Kenseth's line, but it wasn't until months later until I met one. Cal Thompson claimed to be a reporter, and even had the credentials and charisma to fool somebody into arranging a one-on-one interview.

I smelled what he really was as soon as we were alone.

"You're not from _Sports Illustrated_," I said.

"Dale Earnhardt Junior?" he asked. Nope, definitely not from _Sports Illustrated_. "I'm Cal Thomposon. I work for an organization called the Night Watch..."

I almost growled. "What do you want?"

"How long has NASCAR been full of peeps?"

I blinked at that. "Full of what?"

"Sorry, parasite-positives. It's what we call those who have been infected with the..."

"Vampires, you mean," I said.

"Well," he hesitated. "We don't usually like to use that word, but yes."

I stared at him.

"Has it been confined to person-to-person transmission? Have there been any sort of other vectors? Cats? Wolves?"

"Yeah, 'cause we have that big problem with wolves in the infield."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's very important that you take me seriously."

I sighed. "Who wants to know?"

"We're an organization dedicated to tracking the virus. Dealing with some of its more unpleasant effects. Not a lot of us follow your sport, but my friend Lace watches it on TV, and she started noticing signs of what we can tell is definitely an outbreak in NASCAR. A controlled outbreak, I might add, which usually means someone's in charge. I came to offer our assistance, and find out if that person is aware of why he or she is spreading the infection and what it was designed to fight. I thought it was you, since you're an obvious carrier and your name seems to be all over most of the NASCAR stuff I've seen, but now I'm wondering if it's someone else."

I considered.

"I might be able to put you in touch with...Patient Zero," I said at last. "But first you're going to have to answer a couple of questions: Why would someone spread it on purpose and what was it designed to fight?"

"There's a simple answer to both," said Cal. "The end of the world."

***

In the end, I chased the new vampire--peep, or whatever he called himself--away and went to confront Matt with everything he'd said myself. Kenseth was in bed, his cats Lars and Charlotte curled up and sleeping on top of him.

He grinned after I finished laying it all out, but it was an uncertain sort of grin.

"The end of the world," Matt said. "I knew he was worried about something big, but I didn't realize it was that big."

He? For the first time it occurred to me that Matt himself might be someone else's minion.

"He can feel it under the ground," Matt continued. "It's waking up. It follows us, you know. You've probably sensed it, Junior. You just let yourself ignore it. But really listen. Really feel."

I wanted to protest that he was being even crazier than usual, but instead I let myself go still, reached down with all my senses and found it. The low rumbling under the ground, the Something that waking and coming to us, attracted to the roar of the crowds and of forty-three screaming engines. The End of World, coming from below.

"And so you're making a bunch of vampires to fight it? Who told you that was a good idea?"

"Nobody _told_ me. It's just that he can sense it, and I can sometimes sense what he senses."

The big gold cat on Matt's chest opened his eyes and looked at me, and suddenly I flashed back to my earlier conversation with Cal. We didn't have a problem with wolves in the infield, but we did have...

"Matt," I asked. "How long have Lars's eyes glowed red like that?"

Matt shrugged.

The Vampire Lord of NASCAR yawned, stretched and meowed.


End file.
